Token of Green
by Scribe Shiloh
Summary: [Seishiroucentric, oneshot] Sometimes the heart has its own ways of fullfulling its secrets, and it is only when one steps back for a moment that one realizes the truth.


_**Author's notes:** _

I'm not really back from hiatus. I'm more testing the waters. I've been trying to get this concept into text for a while now. I'm not too sure how well I succeeded. My writing feels a bit forced, to me. 

So remember, constructive criticism is my friend. 

Token of Green by Feye Morgan 

The Sakurazukamori stood silently before his closet door, weighing a woolen scarf in one hand thoughtfully. He was eyeing the contents of the closet, the scattered items on the shelves, with curious intent. 

This meant something. 

The scarf had been worn by his latest victim, a young girl in her twenties with short black hair and a quick step. That is, until he'd broken her and everything she carried apart into small, bloodied sakura. 

Everything except the scarf. He'd kept that. He always kept something from his kills, to remember. Otherwise, the fleeting sensation of the chase, the strike, the blood and the victim's dying rattle, all were gone too quickly from his mind. 

Sensation. Unable to feel it for longer than a moment, unable to remember it for longer than a day, he craved it. He would come to his closet on frequent occasion to finger a token or two, to feel the rush return with the memory aided by the physical presence of stained possessions. 

He could smell the blood on them, he could remember in an instant the chase, the look of terror in dark eyes and the excitement it thrilled in him, and how it felt when his hand, thin and taut, tore down through hot blood and fragile bone, the snapping and squelching of death ringing in his ears... 

All, he could remember. 

But at some point in time, some unmarked, invisible transition had occurred. Some point in time when the objects had begun to bring different visions, different sensations. It was slow, budding softly, and he hadn't even realized it was happening until now, when the evidence was piled before him row after row after row... 

He brought the green scarf up to his face, closed his eyes, and breathed in deeply. 

Flash. 

Memories flooded his mind, images of one face laughing, crying, stained in blood. 

He'd not smelled that person's scent on the scarf. Why did he see him, then? 

Frowning, the Sakurazukamori opened his eyes and took the scarf from his face. He stared down at it in puzzlement. Why had he kept it? It held no remembrance of his victim in its woven fibres. It held no sensations of the chase, of the kill. No sweet sounds of her neck cracking and splintering echoed in his ears. 

Why? 

He looked up from the scarf and back into his closet. 

Scanning across the shelves, he could count back time. He remembered every kill he'd made in the beginning. Reaching out to brush his hand over a lock of red hair confirmed this. He was greeted with the memory of his hand slicing through a child's heart, the small body nearly cloven in two by a wound almost as large as its chest. Unconsciously, he smiled darkly. 

He smile faded as he removed his hand and looked down the months. Slowly, bit by bit, his tokens did not match his kills. A splash of emerald green here, a snatch of white there; those items did not bring him memories of his victims. 

He reached out and touched a torn piece of fabric the same shade of cream as _His_. 

Before his hand even made contact, he _felt_. The sensations washed over him, and images of a kind face in twisted pain danced in his mind's eye. Something twisted in kind inside of him, and his mouth parted slightly in mild surprise. 

He pulled away and stared. His eye gazed down the line of mementos, watching as they grew greener and greener, purer and purer, until he realized that they no longer symbolized anything resembling his kills. He'd not picked them because of that, even though his consciousness had thought otherwise. 

He chuckled once, a soft puff of air escaping sharply from his throat. He closed his eyes. 

What disturbed him more than knowing that everything he kept anymore was anything that reminded him of Subaru-kun was that he no longer needed to touch those mementos to remember what they symbolized. 

He didn't need them anymore. 

He could feel his Subaru-kun without them. 

He chuckled again when he realized what that meant, and he wondered absently if this was what his mother had really meant. He wondered if she had stood before this closet door in much the same manner. 

It didn't matter. 

He dropped the scarf not watching or caring as it crumpled to the floor. He already had what he wanted from it. 

He closed the closet door thoughtfully, drumming his fingers on the smooth wood for a moment afterwards. It was such a pity; he would have to give up his dream of staining his Subaru-kun in lifeblood, watching that creation of perfection drown in his own death. He realized now that he could never do it. He could never kill the Sumeragi. 

Though there might be a way to see his Subaru-kun in blood one last time. 

Yes, he thought, and smiled to himself. Yes, there was. 

He left, and never returned. 


End file.
